Four months after the Gallman dam, winter has erased nothing. The seeds the creature loosed into the Ohio before it died have drifted the length of the basin — and this generation has learned to seal itself against the light. No longer one heart in one chamber: a colony braided through the power grid itself, waking in a dozen dams at once along a frozen river.

Priya Nair and her handful of watchers know it, but you can't dewater a continent or send the sun down a thousand shafts. The thing has become the grid. To reach it, they'll have to strike it through the grid — a single stroke of killing light fired into its own copper nerve, everywhere at once, before it can seal. At the cost of switching off the current that keeps a whole country alive, in the dead of winter, for the length of a few seconds. And the world still refuses to believe it exists.

The light goes down. The current is everywhere. All that's left is to learn which of the two reaches the end first.

THE CURRENT

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